Anyone's Blood but Yours
by TheCrowMaiden
Summary: Set shortly after "The World won't see what Love Changed". Sansa needs some alone time to mourn, but forgets that living through war can make people who care about you paranoid. Sansa and Sandor's POV. A one-shot again, and I haven't read all the books so I apologize for any errors. Hope it doesn't disappoint, rated M for the one F word just to be safe .


SANSA

She crept from her room on tiptoe, a dark cloak over her dress and her dainty boots in one hand. Her other hand held her skirts just above the stone floor, mindful of how the sound of cloth dragging would be enough to betray her. Sansa had learned how to avoid being easily detected, even if she would never be as adept at it as her sister Arya. She paused on the steps to put on her boots, and managed to slip out the gate, nearly blind in the dark before dawn. Even though summer had come back, the climate of the North was still cold and forbidding as ever.

Sansa allowed herself to breathe as she made her way away from Winterfell. Her people, one of them in particular, would never have allowed her to leave the protection of the keep alone. But on this day, being alone was all that she desired, all she needed. Some days, solitude made her feel safe.

Many things had been stripped of their importance during her time with the Lannisters, until she had began to think that nothing she had believed in was even a ghost of what it was supposed to be. Romance, knights, chivalry, gentle and courtly women, they were all lies that veneered cruelty and hate. But in the months she had been back in the North as her home re-grew around her, she found that the power of being a Stark was no lie. The meaning and importance behind being the last Stark in Winterfell was all it had ever seemed, and some days she felt overwhelmingly burdened by it.

The tears ran down her cheeks as she stopped in front of the heart tree, the face with its dripping red sap she found so frightening in her girlhood giving her comfort. She had learned that the most fearsome face did not always belong to the most fearsome spirit. Her fingers shook as she stroked the white bark, memories of another weirwood coming to mind. Memories of a poor fool who had tried to save her from her cage, and memories of the golden-haired family who had taken her Father away from her and put her in the cage at the start.

Sobbing, she threw her arms around the heart tree, mindless of the sap that smeared on her hands and dress. This was the day so long ago that Joffrey had killed her Father and made her watch. How often she had wished that she had better loved her family before they were torn away from her! Sansa clung to the trunk of the tree Eddard Stark had so often sat next to and cried until she was so longer the Lady Stark, only the child who still had nightmares of how Ice had looked as it fell that day.

SANDOR

He woke barely before dawn, a pounding behind his eyes he had once been familiar with. He scowled as he heaved himself from his pallet, yanking on his dark leathers and boots as he tried to remember the night before. The pounding in his head could only be from being brutally drunk, and he hadn't nursed a wineskin to such a point since he had settled in Winterfell.

Sandor threw on his cloak and buckled on his sword before kicking open his door with vehemence. He knew that there had been a feast the night before, celebrating the killing of the last of the men who had tried to force the Lady into marriage at the start of the week. The leader's head had rolled for daring to even come near her, and the followers had been too great of fools to surrender.

That still didn't explain how he had gotten drunk…He growled and bitterly shook his head. Of course it did. Damn stupid fool he was to not notice he was in his cups, already drunk off the relief that she was safe.

He climbed the stairs to her room, no longer surprised that everyone seemed to still be asleep. They had likely been drunker than him, and those awake would be nursing their heads.

The door to her rooms was closed, and no light came from beneath it. He thumped his fist on the wood, expecting to hear her usual soft gasp as she woke and her consequent order for him to call her maid.

But he heard nothing, and his heart set to pounding a beat that matched the one in his head. He shoved the door open with his sword drawn and found the room empty; a slight relief since he had feared to find her body. But she was still gone, and he turned on his heel and stormed down the stairs and outside. He easily saw the tracks made by her small-heeled boots, and followed them out the gate and toward the weirwood. The sense of unease was gradually fading since her footprints were alone, but then he heard it.

His little bird was crying.

Sandor ran, sword still drawn, and crested the rise, searching her out. And when he saw her, her back to the heart tree and covered in blood, it felt like he could choke on his rage and fear. He slammed his sword down point first in the dirt and grabbed her, his heavy hands easily tearing her bodice so he could see to her wounds.

When the heavy, blood stiffened material of her gown gave way to her spotless white shift though, he felt like he had been hit with a hammer. Slowly he pieced together the picture before him, and he cursed when he realized she was fine, and he was a fool.

SANSA

When Sandor had appeared, his scarred face twisted in anger, Sansa had nearly fainted. It had been years since she had been truly frightened of him, years since she had seen him look like the Hound again. She tried to ask what had happened, but her earlier crying and her current fear stole her voice.

But when he tore her dress, her indignation rose to the surface. While she didn't know what was going on, she was not a little girl anymore, and she certainly wouldn't allow him to treat her so callously! When he cursed, his grip on her arm loosened, and she pushed against his chest with all her strength.

"How _dare_ you! Tell me what is going on, this instant!"

He turned his head, refusing to meet her gaze, and Sansa grew angrier. Of all the people in her life, he alone was the one she could trust to tell her the truth, and yet here he was wilfully avoiding giving an answer. So she hit him for it, even if her delicate hands were ineffective against his hard-muscled chest.

"I order you to tell me," she cried, unaware tears were running down her face again, "you, you're not supposed to scare me anymore!"

He caught her hands when she went to hit him again, finally looking at her. His scars had stopped bothering her years ago, but her breath caught in her throat from the look in his eyes. It was the look he only gave her, the one with annoyance and fierce protectiveness in it. He turned her hand over when she paused, and rubbed a grimy thumb through the sap stains.

"You know this looks like blood, girl?"

Sansa looked at her hand, looked at her dress, and blushed, it was her turn to look away when she realized what had happened, and why he had acted the way he did. Suddenly her plan to sneak away without telling anyone seemed incredibly childish. She should have known that it would cause a problem, and she tried to pull away from him, feeling mortified.

"I am so sorry, I didn't think, I-"

Roughly, without saying a word, he pulled her to him and kissed her, cutting off her apology. It was the first time he'd kissed her since they'd come back to the North and she clung to him, hand cupping his scarred cheek.

She was grateful Sandor picked her up at that point since she felt sure she lacked the strength to even stand. She apologized again, quietly, her face tucked into his shoulder.

"Quit chirping little bird," he growled as he collected his sword, "and just remember that I'm your cage now, and there ain't no fucking way I'm letting you go."

She smiled and kissed his stubble covered chin. His language didn't bother her in the slightest, and she let him carry her back to Winterfell without complaint.

After all, she obviously wasn't about to get mad at him for saying 'I love you'.


End file.
